


The Silent Man in John's Skin

by TheSingingCynic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSingingCynic/pseuds/TheSingingCynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This continues after the end of Season 2, it has been almost three years since Sherlock jumped and John has been getting by the best he can. Things get worse before they get better. And then a lot worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: Major character death and not a very happy story really...

All comments welcome! Please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: The usual; I own nothing but the plot yada yada don't sue me.

He stared at the date printed on the right hand corner, two days until the third year of Sherlock's death. John closed the newspaper and folded it over the arm of the black chair. The soft leather stroked the back of his head as his eyes slowly panned, watching the room relive the ghosts of a better time; the soft concertos that would fill the living room with static beauty, the time Sherlock taught John to waltz to impress a patient from the clinic, the Christmas party when Sherlock had had a few drinks and began to loosen up and even gave Molly a cheeky wink. John had moved on, but he could never have moved out. Even when Mary had proposed. He could never leave this part of himself behind, it was too important and she couldn't understand that. Thankfully good old Mrs. Hudson had lowered the rent so he could afford to live alone, just until he got back on his feet and could find another tenant for the room upstairs. Almost three years later he was still here and she hadn't pressured him one bit.

He heaved himself up with his stick and winced as pain fired up his left leg. The affliction had started up again a month after the funeral with no signs of improvement. He sighed and walked to the kitchen, he placed his cup in the sink, his hands had regained their tremble as he rinsed out the pale brown liquid vanishing down the depths of the sink. His palms rested against the side of the basin, his shoulders were taught and shuddered with the grip but his neck could barely sustain his head and it fell downward. He rubbed some warmth in to it, calloused skin against delicate, when a thought dawned. A holiday, a get away for a few days would be perfect, get away from the city, his job, the anniversary, everything.

'Hell,' he thought, 'I'll bring Mrs. Hudson, lord knows she deserves a break.' The past couple of years flashed past in a blur of colourful knitted cardigans, tea and biscuits. She took care of John as her own son. She comforted him with no judgment and shared his grief. She did his shopping when he couldn't leave the house, she did his washing when he couldn't leave his bed and she consoled him when nobody else could. The woman was a wonder and it was about time he thanked her for that.

He bounced downstairs as best he could, sporting a goofy smile eager for her reaction. He reached the door, knocked, but came in anyway.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mrs. Hudson why is it so dark in here?"

He walked over to the street window and threw the curtains open letting the feeble winter light cast a cold luminescence to the table, where a half eaten apple was browning and some questionably smelling tea sat half drank. Sitting in front of the set was a slumped woman, her head resting against the table.

"Mrs. …"

John took a step forward, stronger this time:

"Mrs. Hudson?"

But typically rebellious she remained motionless. He touched her shoulder and through her God awful hand-knitted shawl he felt the familiar stiffness and immediate coldness that favours the deceased.

John didn't recoil but instead released her shoulder slowly, picked up the tea set and washed it before brewing a fresh batch. He set her full cup down and sat down next to her. Sipping his in silence. He placed his hand over her curled fingers, squeezing the frozen ligaments. Hoping for the slightest flicker, but the doctor in him knew was hopeless. He gripped he like a lifeline, and then simply, he left. He closed the door softly as not to wake her and trod back upstairs to sit quietly before eventually phoning Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later the morning of the Mrs. Hudson's funeral weighed on John's sagging shoulders, it took him three attempts to struggle out of bed. He washed mechanically, picked a suit and folded himself in to it. Feeling even more constricted and trapped he loosened his tie to stop the impending suffocation.

He closed the front door and strained to here a farewell from Mrs. Hudson but waited in vain, instead he waited for a cab and spluttered the address, realizing he had had no human contact in the last few days. When he arrived at the funeral he was prepared for condolences and armed with thank yous, as hollow as they were. He set up the modest ceremony, a simple funeral with the white lawn chairs laid out in front of the coffin, out in the open and in the fresh and forgiving, unashamed and unafraid just as John hoped she would of wanted.

Half an hour later seats were full and handfuls of people were left standing. The eulogy commenced. John stood in front of the coffin.

"Mrs. Hudson was …"

His voice broke; he paused, took a breath and tried again.

"Looking at you all speaks louder and more meaningful than anything I could ever say. Each of you is a tribute to the goodness Mrs. Hudson left among this earth."

He saw agreeing sympathetic nodding.

"She was a mother, a neighbour, a friend but most of all a hero. Selfless, loving and the bravest woman I ever met. And if I touched her life with even the slightest amount of how much she fixed mine then I can die happy. She was a super-woman and it's the world's loss."

He turned and saluted her descent.

"To a woman who gave only light, may she find peace in darkness."

John turned to see friends and neighbours grieving in their own way. He couldn't help but compare this to the solidarity of Sherlock's funeral and how intimate it had felt. He suddenly hated these people for being here, how dare they interrupt his final minutes with this woman. 'They're frauds, their false friendship, their fake grief, they know nothing of grief.' His glare travelled across a sea of wet faces but something made him stop. His eyes focused on a dark face shadowed by a rimmed hat. But prominent cheekbones were still visible and pale eyes caught the light as the man rose from his seat. John's lungs became a void and his leg gave in trying to move too suddenly. He dropped to his bad knee and was vaguely aware he was grunting in agony as he scrambled back up to run after the leaving silhouette. The first row of the mourners jumped up to help the poor doctor but they were just blocking his view, he barged through them, bulldozing them to the side but the hatted man was gone. He collapsed in a chair panting and sweating even though he had only travelled ten feet.

Lestrade loomed and patted the shaking man on the back, which took the wind out of him again. "You alright John?"

John rubbed his face and looked up to the grey hair who was delivering his best 'sorry for your loss expression.' But his concern peeked through the façade. John clung to Lestrade's shirt. "Did you see him?!"

"Ow, woah, what? See who?"

John pulled him in close and hissed. "Sherlock! He was here I saw him!" Lestrade's eyes sank as he eased John's hands away.

"Oh, John now, you know he's..."

"No! He can't be because he was here, I saw him."

Lestrade sighed and sat down next to him, his arm hanging off his shoulders, "John you know it's impossible, it's been a long and tragic day. Lets not make it worse huh? Come on," He pulled the smaller man to his feet, "I'm taking you to the pub, I'll get one of the boys to clear up here. Come on."

John took a final look round than allowed himself be lead off by the inspector. The pub looked worse than John felt. The curtained windows blocked the daylight attacking the midday dunk. An isolated heard of sorrowful self-pityers were drinking away thoughts they could not face sober.

"Perfect." Beamed Lestrade, he headed to the bar while John sank in to the booth. Too soon Lestrade returned brandishing two of his frothy anti-depressants, John politely accepted the offering and drank half in silence.

"So listen John."

'Here it comes.'

"You're doing alright yeah?" John displayed a feeble half smile with the typically British: 'yeah, fine.' "Well it's just, we've hardly heard from you since, well you know. And now Mrs Hudson passing. I just, you know, making sure…"

John mercifully stopped the struggle but replied with no real enthusiasm; "Thank you, Lestrade, but don't worry about me, solider on."

"Well we'd love you to come back and help out, you know, on cases."

John smiled in to his beer "I think we both know who's opinion you really want." With that John stood, "Thank you for the beer Inspector." Moved towards the door deciding against patting the man on the shoulder. Lestrade chewed his lips knowing he made it worse.

"Oh, John. The funeral was really was beautiful. And the obituary too, she would have been so pleased."

John stopped he had forgotten all about the obituary. "What obituary? I didn't write one."

"Oh," Lestrade stumbled, "Well it was in the paper I just presumed you wrote it."

"Show me."


	3. Chapter 3

"Show me."

'January 1st, and incredible lady was taken from the world this week. Our wonderful Mrs Hudson was a beautiful sparkling woman, a selfless friend and a damn good landlord. Her Soul is at peace but she will be missed. Now and forever with us.'

"I've got to go."

"Now hang on John."

The wind hurricaned the isolated papers in the hallway of 221B in to a panicked tail spin, John took his seat and scanned the paper again. Something wasn't right. Who wrote it? He didn't, Lestrade made it clear he had nothing to do with it, Mycroft wouldn't dare. She didn't have any closer relations in the country. He paused, there was something else, something about it that didn't flow right. He looked at it again, why was it so clunky? He paused again, his breath caught. Maybe. Just maybe. Come on one more miracle. He got out his pen. He tried the first column 'J, T, W, S, D, B, W.' Nothing. Last column? 'S, R, L, A, E, R, S.' Nothing. First letter of each sentence? 'J','O','H','N'. He stopped in disbelief.

"I…I knew it…" He sat back down letting it sink in before jumping to the phone: "Lestrade!" He was breathless and his voice was shaking: "221B, NOW! HURRY!"

Ten minutes later he heard the sirens echoing down the street and the familiar march up the stairs. "John, John are you ok?" Lestrade had swung the door open before John had the chance to let him in. He was covered by two vaguely familiar officers though, John couldn't place names for, and frankly couldn't care less, not right now.

"He's alive! Look!" A paper was thrust into Lestrade's face, he tour it off pinched his brow and sent the boys to wait in the car.

"John stop. I thought you were over this."

"No, no, I have poof this time, just look!" He forced the scribbled on paper upon him once again. "See, first letter of each sentence spells out John."

Lestrade looked and paused. "John, I think you might be clasping at straws here, don't you?"

John scoffed, "Are you…Look! I mean who else could of wrote this."

"Well," mumbled Lestrade "You could of, left it for yourself to find. You've been under a lot of stress especially now, Mrs Hudson…"

John's whole body sagged in disappointment and anger. "How could you even think that?"

"John, please why don't you just talk to someone…"

"I did talk to someone!" Screamed John. "Could she help me? No! Could any of those therapists make a difference? NO! How could they, you knew him Greg, you knew him. I thought you could…"

"John no please, think about it why would he send this and not see you? It doesn't make any sense. Let's not get carried away..."

"Get out. I'll find him on my own."

"I'm trying to help…"

"Go!"

John was sure it was Sherlock who else could it be? Sure, it was clunky and easy to decipher but John was too blinded by hope to notice or simply didn't care. He settled with his paper again and re-read 'John' over and over again, hearing Sherlock's voice calling his name closer than ever. "But what do you want me to do?" It wasn't until another hour passed before he thought to check the other obituaries.

"John. Meet me. Regents canal. 6 AM. Thursday. Boat four."

He confirmed the date at the top of the paper. A tear dropped and puddled the ink. Tomorrow. Then one by one they became streams of salt water followed by insatiable, hysterical laughter. A sudden torrent of emotions roared past the barrier and his insides were engaged in some sort of fit. He collapsed on his back on the sofa, thinking about the newspaper clasped to his chest like a shield. Tomorrow he was getting his life back.


	4. Chapter 4

4AM. Beep. Beep. Beep. But John had been awake for the last eight hours. Unmoving. Waiting. He had hoped it would have been his first sound sleep in three years however, as soon as he drifted off his body pumped anxiety and uncertainty, he woke drowned in cold sweat and trembling yet couldn't recall the divinities of his dreams, but, he didn't care because today he would see his friend again.

5:55AM he had been walking up and down the canal unable to find any boat with a four painted on it, he rubbed his hands against each other he breathed a shaky mist of warmth on to them as doubts began to scratch the itch in his mind.

His pacing became faster and his breathing became more ragged and desperate until the wind was forced out of him when he glimpsed a coat sweeping in to a floating houseboat. He dropped his walking stick and ran the fastest he had in years. He wanted to scream Sherlock's name but his voice was broken, although, there would be time for that, for now the only thing that was working was his legs. He flew into the cabin almost pulling the door off the hinges throwing it open. But what welcomed him was a completely black room, which got blacker as the sudden impact to his head made his eyes shudder close. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

A musty damp smell crowded John senses as he unwillingly came to. His eyes flashed open as he called for Sherlock, his eyes darting around the lit cabin. He froze.

"It's been a long time John."

John's mouth wasn't functioning.

"I've missed you."

"H…How"

"It's just been no fun without you pet." Moriarty sauntered towards him pouting, he stroked the side of John's face as he walked round the back of his chair, his hand knotted in John's dirty blond hair and yanked his neck backwards. John stared into Jim's looming face, black eyes penetrating John's soft blue ones. "Have you missed me?"

John's body was starting to respond as he mustered up his saliva ready to spit but Moriarty clasped his throat to prevent any fire. His pout morphed to a toothy grin. "That's a definite yes. Oh Johnny boy, down to business." His hand had slipped down to around 'Johnny's' chest in a terrifying embrace.

"Where is he?" Hissed John. Moriarty's breath eased is its way into John's ear and Jim giggled as he felt the shudder crawl up John's skin. His melodically cool Irish voice penetrated John's ears.

"That's what we are waiting for. My dear."

John knew it was going to be hard to get a straight answer out of the demented leprechaun but he tried nonetheless. "How are you still alive?"

"Where's the fun in that good to Doctor? Can't reveal all my magic tricks?" He gave the man a wink, "Besides wouldn't you rather know how your girlfriend cheated death?"

"So…he is alive."

"Good god, it's like talking to a freaking parrot, yes he's alive you ridiculous excuse for a mammal."

"But, you wrote the obituary."

"That I did." Moriarty clearly growing tiresome began pulling something from behind John.

"So where is he then?"

"Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner, finally a decent question. And in answer," he pulled a tripod and video camera in front of John, positioning at eye level. "Is why you're here."

John looks hard into the lens. "Why?"

"Like I said I've missed my boys, more than anticipated, and now I want you lovely coconuts back. Smile." The camera-ready light linked into existence.

"Now you are going to read the script." John read it over once.

"I'm not saying this."

"Oh but you are."

"I'm really not."

"Fine, you don't have to, it's your choice. But what is going to happen is I'm going to release you and you are going to read that to the camera."

John snorted.

"Now don't be boring." Snapped Moriarty. "I'm just gonna slice up the lanky shit if you don't. Yada Yada. Dull. We all know you're going to do it so just hurry up." He yawned, growing increasingly more impatient.

John started laughing. Moriarty bared his teeth. But John carried on smiling, "You won't kill him, because you said it yourself. You're bored. You've got nothing without him as entertainment."

"True, true, but I would rather he be dead than to stay in hiding, ignoring all my invitations. You know some closure or whatever those middle aged catastrophes blab about."

John's smile faltered as he stared in to half lidded bored eyes. It wasn't a bluff. But John had one more card.

"Well, hurry up and kill me then."

Moriarty had turned his back he was polishing some sort of very fine, very long pin, apparently completely disinterested. "Hmmm?" Not bothering to turn.

"Killing me is your only option, right? I refuse to make the video."

"My dear, I." He still hadn't turned round and face him but John could hear his smirk, so he continued, cornering his opponent.

"You said Sherlock is in hiding, you need me to get to him. How exactly do you intend to 'slice him up' when you can't even find him in the shadows."

John spluttered, his wide eyes rose to look up to dark snarl. It had happened too fast, the thinner man dived on to his lap. Their eyes connected as he felt the needle withdraw from his wounded shoulder, it was an agonisingly slow departure as the consulting criminal wrung out his words.

"Never interrupt me." John tried to choke back the gasp as with a final hard twist, like a corkscrew Moriarty had retracted the needle.

"He's in the shadows, but not invisible." The criminal had hopped off his lap and was smiling again, circling the chair, dragging his finger across John's shoulders as he passed. "I know exactly where he is John." He cooed this is to his ear, so softly John thought his own bile would suffocate him. "But, that's not the game."

John cursed internally he knew he was serious, with no other choice he scanned the letter a few more times. Moriarty released his bonds with Sebastian safely aimed and ready. Jim hit record, took to a window ledge, closed his eyes and listened to the suicidal lullaby.


	5. Chapter 5

"So what are you going to do with me now?" John was plotting escape routes, but Sebastian was making it impossible.

"Exactly what you just asked for." Giggled Moriarty. "Sherlock's been tailing us the whole time and watching your suicide should shock some sense in to the poor tot, but you never know, if he's quick enough you might survive this one yet."

John was hurled off the back of the boat, weights bound to his wrists and feet plunged him to the bottom of the canal but still being tied to the boat John was being dragged against the rocks and shopping trolleys of the canals floor. He struggled against this live anchoring but the panic was making it hard to conserve his breath. They weren't moving fast but trying to see anything but streams of bubbles and dirt was impossible. He tried to avoid the rocks, he tried to swim to the surface, he tried to make any sort of maneuverer to release his bonds. But it was impossible and with each struggled movement his lungs were screaming. In this state of panic and pain he was pulled into a rock, which knocked his final breath from him and his vision started to tunnel. A brief glimmer of sunlight caught in a stir of broken water wavered in front of his closing eyes as he felt lips and then force-fed some delicious breath.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had abandoned his trailing vessel and dived into the canal, it took him four minutes to get to John in the murky water, he kicked off from the floor as hard as he could breaking the surface with a gasping, greedy breath pulling his companion up first. He thrashed off the binds on Johns feet, dragged John to the waters edge and struggled the man up on to the grass, he pushed John's hair back and began CPR. Pounding on his chest, trying to pump life back into him as well as trying to draw attention. John still wasn't breathing. He shouted at the emerging crowd to call 999 as he stayed alternatively breathing and pushing on John's chest until the ambulance came. The ambulance staff circled John pushing Sherlock to the side-lines. They defibrillator him twice before John spluttered in a wheezing desperate breath before falling unconscious, his chest moving up and down minutely.

They hooked him up to the oxygen tank in the back of the van, Sherlock launched himself in too despite being told not to six times. Once they realised he was adamant on staying they roared back to the hospital. Sherlock latched on to John's hand but could say nothing with the doctor's presence.

Hurtling John on his stretcher to the ward they wouldn't let Sherlock into the room. He watched at the window as the doctors repeated tests and confirmed diagnostics. They pushed Sherlock to the side; restraining him as they wheeled a motionless John passed him.

A young nurse was gripping his arm, "Stop please calm down. Harry listen to me. Your brother is in a coma. He was underwater for a long time, he's suffered a lot of trauma, a significant amount of water reached his brain and it was starved of oxygen. The doctors can't say much more than that for now, he is going for his scans, which will hopefully tell us if there is any permanent damage. You can wait for him in his room."

He was shown to John's room and asked how long the will scans take.

"Now, now Mr Watson, I know it's difficult but you can't rush these things, I'm sure your brother will be done within the hour." The patronising nurse smiled, Sherlock smiled\grimaced back. He needed to be on the good side of these pedantic lunatics. He would just have enough time. He slipped out of the ward and ran back down to the canal, number four was there, harboured. As expected it was empty, no Sebastian or Moriarty, but on each of the four cabin walls was spray painted "PLAY." He scoured the interns of the ship and it didn't take long to find a video camera and the cable taped to the underneath of the chair. He checked the room once more then sped back to the hospital with a couple of minutes to spare.

John returned from the scans and was nested in a disinfected and painfully white bed. Grateful for some privacy finally Sherlock he pulled a chair to his bedside, he saw the man swarmed with tubes and his friend was barely making an impression over the demanding breathing of the machines. He reached out a hand to touch John's face. He had aged so much over the last three years just from exhaustion and weariness, he had lost a lot of weight too, his eyes travelled down the slim frame, amplified by the crisp bed sheets, he wasn't the army doctor, the soldier, the hero he once was and it was his fault. Sherlock spent the next hour explaining to a sleeping John that despite how much he wanted to see him, how he had needed his friend and how he had missed him and that if he could just wake up he could fix that. Another half an hour had passed, Sherlock had explained his death and his adventure but there was no response. Sherlock let him sleep and decided to watch the tape. He saw John, a living John looking at him. His eyes were hard;

"Sherlock, it's been three years since you left me the first year I envied you, and the second year I missed you. But by the third year, I now despise you." Sherlock couldn't watch any more of this, he held the camera to his chest, closed his eyes and listened to his John. "I know you are a pitiful excuse for a person, but this? How do you not just put an end to your empty existence? You're pathetic. You left me when you knew what it would do to my life, with no reason what so ever. And then I find out you're alive and you didn't try contacting me even though you saw what my life became. I know I was your only friend. I came here to tell you how I really feel, Moriarty is giving me this opportunity, and he's right, I see no other way. So this is what people do, leave notes? Right Sherlock. Goodbye, and just know, you have done this and I will never forgive you."

The tape stopped and Sherlock closed the view flap. He felt like he was going to vomit, he had never felt anything like this, this, this utter disgust, resentment and regret. The feeling he would give anything to change. Complete and utter guilt. Is this what John had felt, three whole years. He looked at the sleeping man. His expressionless lined face said yes. And Sherlock's neglect was written in the hollows of the man's cheeks and the sag of his eyes.

Sherlock gripped his stomach it was getting harder to breathe. He suddenly felt like he shouldn't be there, in a presence so much more than just a man, a hero whom he was the cause of his suicide. The door opened slowly, "Harry Watson?" The doctor entered the room and saw a pale Sherlock in the corner. "Mr Watson, we've got the scans back," he paused. "I'm afraid it's not good, your brother sustained a severe lack of oxygen to the brain which means that there is a very slim chance of him waking up from this coma. And even if he does there is even a slighter chance that he will recover from the brain damage."

Sherlock knew what was coming.

"He's brain-dead I'm sorry." The doctor gave a sympathetic gesture and exited.

Sherlock stood and looked at John, regrets and memories pounding the inside of the skull, he wanted to scream, and break anything to dissolve this surge of emotions but instead he pushed the chair underneath the handle of the door knelt by Johns bed, clasped hand and wept.

"John," he lifted his head to look at the sleeping man. "I know you can hear me, you have to wake up. Okay, I can't… You can't do this. I know this is my fault… but if you could just wake up I can apologise and leave, you'll never see me again. I know I should've stayed away, but I couldn't, I just couldn't. I needed to leave to protect you. But I watched over. And it killed me. It killed me to see you, to see you in pain. And even more to see you happy without me. I wish I could've sent you a sign, but it was the risk percentage was too high, and you're too important. So I'm begging. John please don't leave me alone, wake up. I need you."

He rested his head on John's hand when it flexed, a barely noticeable movement but Sherlock felt it, his eyes darted to John's face wet and shining. John's hand gripped his own, opened his eyes and took a ragged inhale. Alarms screamed but Sherlock couldn't hear them. "John!" Sherlock smiled stroking John's hair, looking into glassy eyes. Something wasn't right. "John?" He repeated more urgently. But his eyes remained unfocused.

Sherlock's breath quickened and became rapid. He kicked the chair from under the door and bellowed for the staff from the doorframe. A bustle of nurses charged in and Sherlock was forced into a corner uncharacteristically palming his hands meek and helpless.


	7. Chapter 7

The alarms stopped, the doctor placed his torch back in his white coat and John's eyelids relaxed back into place. The underwater gurgle of noises was becoming clearer as he realised the speaking was directed towards Sherlock.

"Henry, he's awake. But it is as we feared, I'm sorry he is severely brain-damaged and is essentially a vegetable."

Sherlock clutched his chest and let himself be held up by the wall. This public display of emotions sickened him but his body betrayed his mind.

"I'm truly sorry. I will give you some time, but we will need to discuss what happens next." The doctor took his leave and Sherlock was left panting against the wall. He focused on John who was breathing silently, looking at nothing but occasionally blinking. Forty minutes passed and Sherlock felt like it was both two seconds and two years. An internal conflict raged inside his head, working out all possible strategies.

The doctor returned and handed him some pamphlets; "As his only living relative you have the decision of what happens to your brother. We highly recommend you send him to a specialised home." He hands over more pamphlets. "Or hire a full-time carer." More pamphlets. Sherlock's blank stare broke with hard eyebrows and narrow eyes.

"I will be looking after him."

"Mr Watson, this man is no longer your brother, you will be taking on a serious burden of responsibility, in my opinion…"

"I don't give a damn what your opinions are "doctor," he is coming back with me to our flat and nothing you or your pre-med, preteens are going to change that." He projected the pamphlets into the young man's chest and retreated back to John's bedside, 'It's okay I'll take care of you.' Without turning back to the doctor, "How long does he have left and when can he be released."

So that's what Sherlock did, he took the man back to their home, devised ramps and attempted to make John as comfortable as possible. Sherlock had to adapt, he had to become everything he wasn't. A carer is a difficult job even for the trained, but to be completely absent of that type of dependence and intimacy a patient and a carer consist of, was completely foreign to Sherlock. Everyday he had a man who needed him entirely. Sherlock read every conceivable book he could find on John's condition and anyway to treat it. Sherlock became John's doctor, he spent months trying every available treatment on and off market but nothing could even stir John. Sherlock tried, he tried and he tried to bring his old John back. For the first year he was relentless, everyday was a new day out, old places to bring back some memories, new places to elicit some excitement and finally, their ultimate trip; down regents canal, Sherlock's last try. But John only answered with a blank stare. After that they became recluses to 221B, one trapped in a body the other trapped in guilt.

Sherlock was defeated, he knew he had to focus on John as he is rather than trying to regain what he was. The next two years Sherlock flourished in tending to the difficult needs of the man, he was mechanical and efficient but each task broke another piece of Sherlock, he was shedding everything he once was. And if he found himself lost and his eyes roaming the door a memory of John tending his wounds would once again make him become tender and humble.

The silence was the most difficult. The silent man wearing John's skin. It was suffocating, Sherlock tried to fill the void with conversing with the man, having one sided conversations, imagining the quips and shuns his roommate would reply with but it felt like an insult to John, like a cruel ventriloquist with a flesh puppet. He tried John's favourite music but the sound turned sour so instead Sherlock became mute, he carried the burden with his friend, they stayed there sharing their absolute silence. The silence issued space for Sherlock's mind to argue whether he should be there at all. John said he had despised him, and it was his entire fault. John wouldn't even want him here. But what else could he do? He couldn't leave him in the hands of strangers? What would John have wanted? This inner monologue would repeat, every minute of every day. Always leading to the three options, abandon John for the second time, end John's life or end his own. He could never make the decision, so they stayed playing out this illusion, act after act with no sign of conclude.

Sherlock pushed the wheelchair in to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath letting the warmth spill from the taps and ribbon through his fingers, he listened to the bath slowly fill up before turning his attention to John. He had dressed him in his favourite cream jumper, which he removed first along with his shirt, trousers and the rest of his clothing. Sherlock had to turn away, John's very obvious ribcage now juts out and his broad shoulders that used to fill up a jumper so perfectly were now sharp and cold. Sherlock took a breath before he could lift the man and ease him in to the bath. The little weight almost made Sherlock cry, the doctor was right, there was nothing left of the John he knew. But that didn't matter. He set to the arduous task of washing the man, and although John was so slight, it is hard working with a body completely unwilling, like scrubbing and moving pieces of butchers meat. He started with the right arm that was draped uncomfortably over the side, Sherlock dipped it in to the warm water and dragged the sponge along the forearm, he lifted the limb and washed under the arm pit he followed the withered muscles across his chest, his hand pressed against Johns pectoral, he felt a feeble heartbeat. He clutched the skin staring up in to the dead eyes "Oh, God damn it John." He wanted to punch the man anything to get just the slightest reaction that he was doing the right thing that John was still in there somewhere. Instead he continued his task furiously scrubbing before falling on to John's forearm as angry tears began streaming.

He lifted his head and saw the hairs on John's arm on standing on end; he checked the water, which was now freezing.

"Shit."

He ran back to the living room picked up the giant duvet and hauled John out of the bath and wrapped him up, he wheeled him in to the living room, sat him on the sofa and started the fire. He leant against the fire place as the flames started to flicker colours of warmth. He stared at the video camera that had replaced the skull. As a reminder of why he was here, redemption and friendship. He glanced at a very pale John awkwardly propped up on the sofa. Sherlock picked up the camera and moved towards the sofa. He felt John's cheek and it was still freezing, he opened the blanket snuck in and warmed the man in an embrace, opening the camera, this time, this time he was going to watch it. He had to.

The video flashed into movement, a healthier John, eyes shining down the lens and a voice so rich and warm filled the room. Sherlock knew the speech word by word now, he had listened to it so often, the pain he put John through, he begged for his forgiveness every day, though he had never been able to watch it, but something about this Christmas gave him strength. But the first words hit him stronger than ever, he shrunk, every essence of everything he was shattered by the despise of his friend. His fingers twitched towards closing the flap but he restrained and through wet eyes kept going. "Put an end to your empty existence." He felt a pin of pain strike his insides again. 'Oh God John, if only I could but I can't leave you, not again.' But Sherlock noticed something. The un-sequential timing of his blinks, they didn't follow a pattern, they were definitely forced. His body tensed and his hands shakily found their way to the rewind button. "Sherlock" –blink. …. He had left a message. John was talking to him beyond this state, he knew it! He eased off the man and flew around the room stirring up papers and dust as looking for writing equipment, he flung him self down back down with his room mate and curled up in the blanket again writing the hidden message:

"Sherlock, you left me and I missed you. But, I know you are human. Do not just end your existence. You're my life. You're alive my only friend. I came here to tell you how I really feel, and I see no other way. So, Sherlock. Goodbye, and just know, I forgive you."

He stared in to the paused face of his old friend; a face even under hostage had so much life and potential always a smile hiding in the corners of his eyes. "Thank you, John." He placed the camera down and lifted up the real John buried in his chest, he raised his face to face his, he lent his forehead against John's and whispered his thanks. "…Sherlock…" Sherlock's eyes flit open, he moved his head back and saw green eyes focused on his own. Sherlock's thumb ran along underneath the right eye but Sherlock's mouth wouldn't comply and was left open silently gasping as John's lips smoothed in to a tiny warm smile until the shine in his eyes were blocked by his closing eyelids.

Author's notes: Hey everyone, thank you so much for taking the time to read, feel free to leave some feedback! Also I know there are still a lot left unsaid in this sory:

Why did Sherlock think the message was real when he knew John was with Moriarty?

Why was the code so easy to crack?

What did Moriarty hope to achieve with the message, was John supposed to die?

Will Sherlock confront Moriarty?

Why hasn't Moriarty got involved yet?

Did Moriarty kill Mrs Hudson?

So I'm planning on a Part 2 to neaten it all up, if you guys want. Have a wonderful day!


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